


Heads with No Names

by CaffieneKitty



Category: Highlander (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Season/Series 01, case-fic, i know you know i know you know discussion, sword lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-14
Updated: 2007-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:43:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffieneKitty/pseuds/CaffieneKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean investigate some mysterious beheadings in New York city and have a chat with some guy who likes swords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heads with No Names

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** Written in approximately two hours for a 2007 **win_non_con** prompt, so don't expect high art here. 
> 
> _Originally posted on Livejournal October 14, 2007_

"Fifth beheading in a month, Dean. One guy's body was found in the street, while his head was found in a trashed office forty floors above."

Dean picked up the paper Sam had tossed on the table and examined the article. "Vampires?"

"Don't think so. It is New York, though, lots of nightlife for them to hide in."

Dean tilted his head in acknowledgment of the point.

"Also reports of freak atmospheric phenomenon, electrical disturbances, manhole covers flying off, and, uh, there was an antique sword found at the scene of one beheading under Madison Square Gardens. That one apparently happened during a boxing match."

"Hunh. Guess we're heading to the big Apple."

-

Connor MacLeod was pissed off. The Kurgan was out of control and running wild in his city. He was violent, disrespectful of the rules, and was hurting innocent people. In his city. Connor looked out over the glow of downtown Manhattan. A person didn't live in a place for several hundred years without feeling a bit like the laird of the land. Even if the land held several million people, most completely unaware he even existed.

There was a roar of an engine and a screech of tires on the road below. He looked down to see two young men in suits get out of a black 1967 Impala, bickering about something, and head to his door.

 _Something unexpected. Interesting. Nice car._ He waited a minute before heading inside and downstairs.

Rachel had the two men waiting in the front drawing room. "They say they're with the FBI." She told Connor, glancing at him sidelong.

Connor noted the lack of the feeling of another immortal presence. "It's nothing," he told Rachel, waving a hand dismissively. "Just some formality about this business with the antique sword at a murder scene a while back, I'm sure."

"You're sure?" She asked, quietly.

"Yes." He smiled. "You worry too much."

Connor didn't try to surprise them when he entered the waiting room. Startling people who played with guns for a living usually meant buying a new shirt and he rather liked the one he was wearing. The taller of the two young men was examining a case of Japanese swords and weapons, the shorter was... prowling. Both had turned to face the door as Connor entered.

-

"I'm Russell Nash," the antiques dealer said, not holding out a hand. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Hi, I'm Agent Ulrich, this is my partner Agent Hammett. We're here about the sword from the beheading case a few days ago."

"The Toledo-Salamanca?" Nash stepped down into the sunken room. "I've already discussed my findings with that ass Moran from the police."

"Well, we aren't the police."

"Evidently." The ghost of a smirk chased itself across Nash's face. "What did you want to know?"

"With the recent beheadings, we were wondering if the sword itself had any occult meaning."

Sam shot a glance at Dean. "Of course, solely to determine if someone has decided to take the legend as real, enact them."

Nash smiled. "I don't know much about the occult, I'm afraid. All I can tell you is it is a very old, fine and rare blade." He sat on the circular couch and gestured Sam and Dean to do the same.

"Do you know anything about it's history?" Sam asked.

"History, now there's something I know a lot about. The toledo swords were always considered some of the finest. The mythical sword of King Arthur was said to be a Toledo sword. The Toledo-Salamanca is even rarer, because swords produced at that time were made almost exclusively in Toledo, where the Toledo-Salamanca was one of a small line, produced to exacting specifications and by expert swordsmiths in Salamanca." Nash's eyes slid back and forth between Dean and Sam.

"Does Salamanca have any particular legends or myths some nutjob might have latched on to?" Dean asked.

Nash laughed. "No, unless you count the legend of the frog."

"Frog?" asked Sam.

"Yes. Legend says that if a person catches this frog unaided, they will have fantastic sex for the next seven years."

"Really?" Dean leaned forward. "And where exactly is Salamanca?"

Sam resisted the urge to hit Dean as it would not help their claim to be FBI agents.

"Spain," said Nash with a smirk.

"Ah," said Dean, leaning back again.

Sam sighed and leaned forward to look into Nash's eyes. "What do _you_ think is going on with all the beheadings, Mister Nash?"

Nash tilted his head and seemed about to say something, but stopped himself, looking back at Sam appraisingly before saying, carefully, "I think that there are sick people in this world. Dangerous people. And I think that anyone who gets in the way of dangerous people is a fool."

"So, are you a dangerous person or a fool, Mister Nash?" asked Sam, pushing.

The corner of Nash's mouth turned up and he bared his teeth in a grin, refusing to be pushed. "I'm not sick." He settled back on the circular couch. "I think that if you leave it alone, the situation will resolve itself, within the next week."

"Resolve itself?" Dean leaned forward, scowling. "People are _dying_ , Mister Nash. Their heads are being chopped off. You suggest that this isn't a problem that needs to be stopped before more people _die?_ "

Nash's lips twitched. "Of course, loss of life is tragic. I'm only saying that perhaps it's something that is best left out of the hands of amateurs."

"We're not amateurs, Mister Nash," said Sam, straightening. "We're the FBI."

"And you say that with a straight face. How amusing."

Sam stood and opened his mouth to say something.

Dean surged to his feet. "Mister Nash, are you a vampire?"

"De-!" Sam turned with a glare, nearly blurting out his brother's real name in sheer incredulity.

Nash's eyebrows went up. "No," he chuckled. "But you'd be surprised how often I've been asked that."

"What are you then? We've looked through the county archives, and it's your handwriting on every deed to this house going back hundreds of years."

"Not a vampire." Nash stood. "Look. We both know we aren't who we say we are. You aren't FBI, I'm not... exactly just an antiques dealer."

"So, you've just lived for a really long time and chop off people's heads for, what, sick jollies?"

"I told you, I'm not sick." Nash grinned. "All I'm saying is that sometimes it's best to leave these problems to resolve themselves. All the decapitations will stop within a week, and I guarantee, not a single one among the decapitated will be surprised by how they met their end. This Gathering has been millennia in the making. It's time."

"What about the sidewalk psycho?" asked Dean. "Is he connected to your bunch?"

Nash's grin faded to a grimace. "I'll deal with him. You have my word."

-

When the windows exploded out of the abandoned warehouse, followed by an impressive light-show, Dean and Sam were blocks away in the Impala, watching to see who came out of the building.

After a few minutes, Nash staggered out, leaning on a sword.

"Think we did the right thing, staying out of it?" Sam asked, watching Nash.

Nash waved at the Impala, then spread his arms out to the sides and looked up at the sky with an expression of sheer relieved joy.

"I hope so."


End file.
